Divine Trilogy

by Cheryl Kaye Tardif

  Sampson's dark eyes twinkled back at him, as if he had a secret he couldn't wait to tell. It probably didn't hurt for the younger Caucasian Prime Minister to be seen exchanging gracious handshakes with an Ebonic―or formerly politically correct African American―politician whose major platform was the elimination of racial discrimination.

  Probably won the PM a lot of votes, he thought.

  As Ben drove toward downtown, he thought about Sampson's bizarre memory loss. Having glimpsed a wounded man, one who was confused and devastated by his actions, he actually felt sorry for the man. Alcoholism was an insidious disease and recovery was a constant uphill battle, and there was no doubt in Ben's mind that something or someone had given Porter Sampson a downhill push.

  But who?

  Ben replayed their conversation. Sampson seemed honestly confused. No head games there. The man had disappeared for thirty odd hours and knew nothing about it.

  Is this connected to Winkler?

  "Time to pay Marilyn Winkler a visit," he decided.

  On his way to Winkler Manor, Ben decided to take a short detour. He stopped at the park where Porter Sampson had woken up from his drug-induced sleep.

  The concert stage at Britannia Park, he'd said.

  The stage was situated on the bank of a duck pond. To the left of the stage was a bench made of wrought iron with weathered wooden planks for the seat, which had seen a lot of wear from Mother Nature and passers-by who'd stopped to admire the view. All around the bench grew short, scruffy-looking grass.

  Ben checked the area thoroughly, especially the floor of the stage. He found nothing of notable importance. The city police had done their job. They'd already collected garbage and prints from around the stage.

  He sat down on the bench and gazed out over the pond. Patches of algae marred its otherwise perfect mirror finish, but that didn't matter to the three young ducklings that followed their mother into an overgrowth of waving reeds and cattails.

  Witnesses?

  Ben peered over his shoulder, observing the other occupants of the park. A young woman jogged along the paved path, a golden retriever at her side. The woman's ponytail swung from side-to-side. Her limber legs seemed to barely touch the ground. A couple of teenaged girls giggled nearby while taking long drags off a shared cigarette. Skipping school, most likely. The only other occupant of the park was an old woman dressed in layers of ill-fitted clothing that screamed 'street person.' She was busy feeding the ducks and talking to them.

  He strode toward her. "Excuse me, ma'am."

  The woman spun around unsteadily.

  "What do you want?" she snapped, her cold hazel eyes drilling into him. "You gonna tell me it's against the law to feed my babies?"

  "No, ma'am." Ben held up a photo of Porter Sampson. "I want to know if you've seen this guy around here."

  The woman's eyes narrowed. "Why? He kill someone?"

  "Why would you say that?"

  She shrugged and turned back to feeding the ducks.

  "He's a Member of Parliament, ma'am. He woke up on the floor of the concert stage this morning, with no knowledge of how he got here."

  "Must've been plastered then. Or on drugs."

  "Did you see anything suspicious, anything at all?"

  "I ain't seen nothing." She peered over her shoulder at him. "And the only suspicious person 'round here is you. Who comes to the park in a suit like that? You can't be a cop."

  Ben chuckled. "I'm with the CFBI."

  "CFBI, CIA, CSI…it's all a conspiracy, you know."

  He thanked her.

  "You wanna thank me proper, leave me a tenner."

  Without a word, he tucked a ten dollar bill into her outstretched palm. The skin on her hand was raw and red.

  The old woman examined the bill. "Better not be fake."

  "It's good," he said.

  She beamed a smile at the ducks. "Babies, I'm going to get you the best lunch today." To Ben she said, "I heard music in the park this morning."

  "What time?"

  "Around five o'clock. I followed it here, but it was already gone. I never saw no one though. And I didn't go up on the stage."

  "What kind of music was it?"

  "Dunno. It was kinda hard to hear."

  He left her to her ducks and headed back to the parking lot. The music the woman had heard could have come from anywhere. More than likely, someone had driven past the park, with music blasting and windows down.

  Another dead end.

  He mulled over his earlier conversation with Sampson. Something about Sampson's disappearance stank, and it wasn't just the man's sweat-stained and booze-soaked clothes. He'd woken up here, yet had no idea how'd he'd even gotten to the park.

  "No, there's more to this than meets the eye."

  In the SUV, Ben carefully pulled the tissue from his pocket and unfolded it, revealing Sampson's discarded cigar butt.

  "Perhaps this will shed some light on the truth."

  Removing a glove, he held the cigar stub loosely between his fingers and closed his eyes. A wave of emotions coursed over him. Confusion, uncertainty…fear. Blurred images crept into his mind. Two of them came into focus for a few seconds.

  A Canadian flag falling into water.

  A glowing silver sun.

  He opened his eyes and waited for the feeling of disorientation to disappear. When it did, he wrapped the butt in the tissue and started the car.

  On his way to meet Marilyn Winkler, he thought of the fleeting images. It frustrated him that his visions were always cut short. He'd spent a month in intensive training, working with psychometric specialists, doing everything to refine his gift.

  "And this is what I get," he muttered. "A Canadian flag and a silver sun. Great."

  When he arrived at Winkler Manor, he put aside all thoughts of his vision and took in the formidable surroundings. He was impressed by the stately home, but the lady of the house was even more extraordinary.

  Marilyn Winkler welcomed him with the grace of a woman accustomed to entertaining. There was no sign of her brother-in-law James.

  "I'm sorry I'm such a mess," she said, one hand patting the bun in her hair. "I wasn't expecting company."

  That wasn't how it looked from his perspective. Marilyn was dressed for business. For success.

  She offered him tea, but he declined.

  "If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like to check your husband's office."

  "Of course I don't mind."

  She showed him the way.

  "Would you like me to stay?"

  "That's okay," he said, but not before he caught a faint glimmer of distrust in her eye.

  "Are you sure, Agent Roberts?"

  "I'd like to get a sense of Monty," he said, purposefully using her husband's first name. "I promise I won't take anything without your permission."

  That seemed to have the effect he was hoping for.

  Marilyn retreated, the door closing softly behind her.

  He released a breath, then turned to the business at hand.

  Monty Winkler's office had the aura of a man's world. He imagined that this was where the politician had conducted a lot of business, tying up deals, making policies that affected the Canadian life.

  He removed his gloves and tucked them in his jacket pocket. He picked up a golf trophy. It was cold and he got nothing from it. He set it down, careful to place it exactly where it had been.

  A framed newspaper clipping hanging on the wall near the window caught his eye. He carefully took the clipping down. The photo was familiar. It had run on the front page of the Ottawa Sun.

  The headline read: Victims of Violence Gun Gala.

  Suddenly an image flashed before him. A road splitting in two. Winkler was walking down one side, while a ghostly twin strolled down the other.

  Ben jerked, and the vision vanished. Returning the clipping to its place on the wall, he thought of Monty Winkler. Somewhere in his career, the man had taken a detour, a decision that quite possibly h
ad resulted in his brutal murder.

  So what had he decided?

  12

  Jasi knew something was up the second she saw Ben. He was seated at the table in his room, scrolling through documents on a laptop. He was so engrossed by whatever he was reading that he didn't realize that she and Natassia had entered the room.

  She was about to say something when Natassia dropped her purse on the tile floor. It landed with a loud thud.

  Ben's hand reached for the gun on the table.

  "Good thing I'm not a bad guy," Natassia joked.

  "Well, you're not a guy," he quipped. "The jury's still out on the bad part."

  "Ha-ha."

  Natassia flashed him a saucy grin and Ben looked away.

  Jasi hid a smile. Very interesting.

  "I think we need a pow-wow," she said.

  Natassia's brow arched. "Pow-wow?"

  "It helps to talk the case through out loud." Jasi perched on the bed. "So what do know so far?"

  "Winkler had a fondness for butterfly music," Natassia said.

  Ben frowned at her. "What?"

  Natassia glanced at Jasi. "Forget it. It was an inside joke. You had to be there."

  Jasi watched them with curiosity. The air was electric, sizzling with tension. Or perhaps something else.

  Something's happening here.

  Whatever it was, she wasn't sure she liked it.

  After they rehashed everything they knew about the two cases, Jasi sent a written report to Matthew via her data-com. Then she activated the phone number search. Within seconds she was connected to Ravinder Sharma's office on Parliament Hill.

  "We're investigating Monty Winkler's murder," she told him. "I'm wondering if someone went after him because of the gun rights bill. Have you received any threatening phone calls or letters on this?"

  "I've received some threats, Agent McLellan," Sharma replied in a heavy accent. "Mostly emails. But I don't take them seriously. It comes with the territory. A kind of political karma and all."

  Political karma? That was a first.

  "I had lunch with Monty a couple of weeks ago," the man added. "He seemed content and happy, no worries. If he was being threatened, I think he would've told me. We were very good friends."

  "I'm sorry for your loss." She paused. "I have one more question. It's about the gun rights vote."

  "You want to know why I voted for and not against the new law." Sharma's voice grew quiet. "I can't answer that, Agent McLellan."

  "It's not like it's confidential information," she argued.

  "No," he said calmly. "I mean, I can't answer you because I'm not sure why I voted for it. I planned to vote against guns. So did Monty."

  Jasi was shocked. "Then why did you both vote yes?"

  "I think we were just overworked at the time. Anyway, by the time we'd realized what we'd done, it was too late. And frankly, we both felt a little stupid."

  Stupid and irresponsible, she thought.

  "Is there anything else?" Sharma asked.

  "No. If I have any other questions, I'll call back."

  "I hope you find whoever did this. Monty was one of the good guys."

  "That's what everyone tells me."

  After she hung up, she turned to Ben. "Neither Sharma nor Winkler seem to have received any direct threats relating to the gun law."

  "Then perhaps someone's harboring a grudge about something else." He filled them in on his visit to the Sampson residence.

  "It could be exactly as it looks," Natassia said. "Maybe he went out and got drunk."

  Jasi turned to Ben. "What's your take on Porter Sampson? Do you think he's lying, trying to cover up where he really was?"

  "I don't think Sampson voluntarily went out and got so stinking drunk that he can't remember anything." He grabbed a can of cola from the small fridge, then returned to his chair. "I wanted to read him, but he wasn't in a friendly sort of mood."

  Natassia gave Jasi a questioning look.

  "When Ben reads someone," she explained, "they have to be relaxed and open."

  "Ah," Natassia replied. "And unsuspecting."

  "Uh, yeah," Ben said. "I did, however, read two inanimate objects, although I didn't get a lot from either of them."

  He told them of his vision from the cigar butt.

  "We're surrounded by Canadian flags here," Jasi said.

  "And the silver sun?"

  She thought about this. "A full moon or new moon, maybe."

  "Or coins," Natassia added.

  "Maybe," Ben said.

  "What about your other vision?" Jasi asked.

  "Before I left Sampson's office, I took a photo of a newspaper clipping." He brought the photo up on his data-com. "When I touched it, I saw Sampson walking along a road that veered off in two directions."

  "He hit a detour," Jasi guessed. "Or had to choose."

  "Yeah, but what's weird is that I saw him clearly on one road and a paler ghost image of him on the other."

  "Maybe it's related to the gun vote. He chose yes, but wanted to vote no."

  "Or it could be unrelated."

  She hated seeing him so unsure. "Do you think your vision is connected to the case?"

  "Honestly? I don't know."

  Jasi felt for him. Lack of clarity was a common problem with Ben's gift. He usually saw cryptic symbols, which made interpreting his visions extremely difficult.

  "Well, let's keep it in mind," she said.

  "Oh, and speaking of photos," Ben said, "the one you took of that boat is registered to Chief Justice Victor Cahill."

  Jasi initiated a quick phone number search on her 'com. Within seconds she was connected to the judge's office and lined up an appointment the following day with the esteemed Chief Justice.

  "All taken care of," she said when she hung up.

  "Anything else we need to know?" Natassia asked Ben.

  "Yeah, Sampson's missing a blue binder. He thinks he left it in his Parliament office, but his wife says it was on a shelf at home. I'll check with him later on that." He released a pent-up sigh. "I wish to hell we knew what was going on here."

  "I have a feeling," Jasi said, "that things are going to get a lot worse before they get better."

  From beneath her lashes, Jasi spied on her partners and tried not to laugh. Ben sat in the armchair near the window, as far away from Natassia as he could get. But he couldn't stop staring at her. Natassia was oblivious.

  "See anything interesting?" Jasi asked Ben.

  His head whipped around. "What?"

  "In the files."

  Ben's task was to read through the missing person's reports that had been sent to his laptop.

  "Uh, nothing yet."

  "We should look for connections the men may have had. There has to be a reason why these men were chosen."

  On her own laptop, Natassia was screening the main folders from Winkler's computer, checking for recently updated files. Jasi sat at the table across from her and poured over the victim's emails and the brief report on Darlene MacKenzie, the woman who'd gone missing for three days. MacKenzie's credit card showed charges for the room and a couple of meals. Nothing there.

  With each passing hour, she became increasingly frustrated. Nothing jumped out at her. Nothing unusual, anyway.

  "I don't see anything in Winkler's correspondence," she said with a sigh. "Everything seems to be either innocent conversations or a lot of boring political mumbo-jumbo that I can't even understand."

  She'd already contacted everyone Winkler had emailed the week before his death. Nothing had panned out, and they weren't any closer to solving his murder.

  She studied her partners. From the looks on their faces, they weren't having any better luck at finding something useful.

  Ben caught her eye. "What?"

  "Now I know why OPS and the RCMP were stumped. And they didn't even have half the information we have."

  Ben's eyes drifted toward Natassia. "What about you? Any luck?"

  "Nope," thei
r new partner muttered. "Nada."

  Jasi groaned. "So what are we supposed to do now? Wait around for a killer to make his next move?"

  No one said a word.

  "We need more to go on," she muttered.

  "I agree," Ben said. "But we still have to keep looking."

  Natassia glanced up. "I'm done with these files. The only ones Winkler created in the past three months match the forms we found. He revised a few of them somewhat, then printed and signed them. Most were attachments that he saved in separate files."

  "I've got nothing," Ben said. "Everything the wives say checks out with the reports they filed when their husbands went missing. And there weren't any witness reports to give us any leads."

  Jasi nodded. "The only connections outside of their disappearances are that both men are members of Parliament and they're well respected with few complaints lodged against them."

  "What about police records?"

  "Squeaky clean. Both of them."

  "Nobody's that clean," Ben argued. "Not in politics, that is."

  Jasi agreed. "So what ties them together? They hang around with different crowds, are members at different country clubs and have no interests in common."

  "They're both married," Ben said. "But I can't picture Oprah getting her husband drunk and dragging him to a park bench."

  "Oprah?" Jasi said, her mouth crinkling in a half-smile.

  "Lorraine Sampson." He shrugged. "Hey, she looks like Oprah to me."

  "Who's Oprah?" Natassia interrupted.

  Jasi and Ben were stunned into silence.

  Natassia cocked her head to one side. "Well?"

  "You're not serious, are you?" Jasi asked. "Oprah Winfrey? One of America's most influential women?"

  No response.

  "Queen of television talk shows?" Jasi prodded.

  Natassia gave them a bland look. "I don't watch TV."

  "I take it you're not a member of her book club either."

  Ben released a muffled sigh. "Back on track, you two. We've got one dead politician and one who was missing for nearly two days. We have to trace Sampson's steps, find out where he was, where he was drinking. Someone had to have seen him."

  "Tomorrow I'll check out the bars near the park," Jasi said. "Why don't you two visit Sampson?"